Where the Nurses are Pretty and the Doctors are Pissed

Allen Williams adopted his uncle’s surname of Lane when he became involved in the family business of publishing. John Lane was one of the founders of Bodley Head publishing whose stable of high profile writers included Oscar Wilde though Oscar fell out of favour with the Lanes when he seduced one of their office boys.

“He rose quickly in the business becoming managing editor in 1925 following the death of his uncle. After conflict with the board of directors who were wary of publishing James Joyce’s controversial book Ulysses, Lane left in 1936 to set up Penguin Books. The legend goes that on a train journey back from visiting Agatha Christie in 1934, Lane found himself on an Exeter station platform with nothing available worth reading. He conceived of paperback editions of literature of proven quality which would be cheap enough to be sold from a vending machine; the first was set up in Charing Cross Road and dubbed the “Penguincubator”.

Lane soon became as much of a British institution as the BBC and was often referred to as a modern day Gutenberg. Early company meetings were held in a favourite Spanish restaurant with plenty of wine to accompany them. One visitor was shocked to discover an editorial meeting taking place on a rowboat, the staff dipping into gin as steadily as the oars did into the water.

In 1937, Penguin moved its office to Middlesex; the property cost £2000 plus an additional £200 for the crop of cabbages that were growing there. The staff first had to pick their way through the cabbages which Lane then sold at markets.

In 1960, Lane once again became the champion of free speech when he decided to publish Lady Chatterley’s Lover. The trial for obscenity was decided by Mervyn Griffith-Jones, who, when asked how he would decide whether or not to prosecute, answered, “I’ll put my feet up on the desk and start reading. If I get an erection, we prosecute.”

Ah, Lady C. I remember the trial well, even though I was only 1…..ahem. The chief benefit of the book (which was quickly passed amongst us by Norman Bamford, the best pages identified with paper clips) was thought to be as a seduction tool for the pupils at the local Grammar School for Girls. Alas, we got that VERY wrong. WE, at the boys school, had mostly only heard rumours of what lay beneath (unless one had a sister. In which case, it had mostly put one off such things). THEY, of course, had seen plenty of CT&As, and were only interested in the book’s literary value. Which wasn’t much.

Kind of off topic for the book discussion you have going on here now Nurse Myra but thanks to your keen observation I just finished writing up a little post in honour of Harry Houdini on the anniversary of his death.

The claim that putting up your feet is synonymous with erections is simply not true. Sure there are some outliers but my personal data does not support this claim. I require a little imagination or a the correct attention from the correct person. Desks and feet rarely have a place in the equation (rarely).